THE DEPRIVED... Chapter 4...Part 3.

A continuation of my book.

Sam was removed, along with the other two boys who continued to wail and cry out for their mothers, which gained them a further sharp cuff to the ears from the policeman who watched over them as they were placed in a separate room and awaited their separate turns to face the Judge.
“You there! You slippery eel. You aint going to stand till them babies has been seen to by his Reverend. There’s a special dealing to be had with you, seeing as you’ve been done and charged with trying to murder a man who was out and about on his legal and lawful business.”
With that the policeman pushed Sam to the back of the room and led the two young boys away. It was some time before two policemen came back into the room and manacled Sam before leading him up the stairs into the dock.
“Stand up for the Judge!” ordered one of the policemen as the Judge, a sober looking man dressed in a gown and white powdered wig, took the high chair facing the dock.
“That’s him! That’s him who tried to murder me!”
Sam looked up at the scar-faced man who sat, his head now turbaned in a swathe of bandages and who leaned over the gallery barrier and pointed down with a shaking finger.
“Quiet!” shouted the Prosecutor, a tall thin man of some importance and who now glared up at the gallery before putting thumbs behind lapels of his coat and turning back to face the Judge.
The Judge did not look up, his eyes down as he appeared to be reading a book.
“Next case.” said the Judge, still reading and seemingly unaware the next case already stood with nose peering over the dock across from him.
“The next case, your Honour?”
For a time the Prosecutor stood staring from the prisoner to the Judge and back again as if unsure of what to say or do. After some debate within himself, the Prosecutor decided to continue.
“The next case your Honour deals with this highly dangerous man who did attack and try to murder Jonathan Hinson, seated up there in the gallery.”
“That’s me, your honour! I’m the man he tried to kill!” shouted the scar-faced man from the gallery.
“Quiet!” shouted the Prosecutor.
“Is he guilty?” asked the Judge, his eyes on the book before him.
“We have many witnesses to his act of murderous intention.” began the Prosecutor then turned to face the gallery, his eyes upturned as the many witnesses all began screaming out they had seen the murderous attack made on Jonathan Hinson.
“Quiet!” shouted the Prosecutor above the din.
The noise abated until the scar-faced man, literally hanging over the gallery, began to untie the swathe of bandages and having done so bent his head to expose the wound for all to see.
“See what the murderer did to me bonce!” he cried.
“Take that man out of court and lock him up,” called the Judge, now looking up from the book and pointing out Jonathan Hinson.
“But I’m innocent!” screamed out the scar-faced man as two jailors began to drag him away, much to the amusement of those up in the gallery who jeered and booed as he was taken away.
“As I was saying.” began the Prosecutor once more.
“Guilty as charged.” broke in the Judge, his eyes once again back on the book.
“I sentence you to a life in prison, to be transported to the far Colonies after a period of adjustment in prison.” decided the Judge and snapping the book shut he rose and made his way out through a small door behind him.

Sam was hustled out from the Courtroom and locked into a small cell underground. He said nothing and closing his eyes he made himself comfortable on the wooden bench and slept.

“Come on you, it’s time to move you out.” shouted a policeman, roughly shaking Sam so that he jerked awake and was manacled once again then hustled out of the cell before he could realise what was happening. In the backyard of the Magistrates Court stood the waiting prison cart, the pair of horses snorting and stamping at the ground with impatience. At the back of the cart there stood two prison Warders, stern-faced. The policeman unlocked the manacles and handed Sam over to the custody of the prison authorities, the prison Warders who ordered Sam into the back of the cart then climbed in after him.
“Keep a sharp eye on that one. He’s a murderous villain.” said the policeman before walking away.
On the wooden benches sat half a dozen young boys, three to either side of the cart. The driver of the cart came round to the back and looked in before slamming the door and locking it.
“Where we going to?” asked one of the boys.
“Sit there and keep your trap shut!” ordered one of the Warders as both Warders sat to each end, their truncheons held and laying in open menace across their knees.
The driver whipped the horses into movement. None of the boys spoke as the wagon bumped and jostled its way through the cobbled streets. Sam kept his eyes down though aware the other boys studied him curiously as the cart slowed to a walk, now hitting rough country roads. The further the cart travelled, the colder it seemed to get so that the boys shivered under their light clothing.

At last, after having travelled a full day’s ride and through the night, the cart drew to a halt and the driver, having climbed down and stretched out his arms, opened the back door then stood back as the two Warders jumped down.
“All out and none of your funny business!” shouted the Warder who seemed to be in charge.
The boys climbed out and were lined up. More Warders now arrived, carrying lit torches, some with lanterns. They formed two lines and with the boys between them marched the boys down to the shore. Sam stared out into the darkness. The night was dark and with a dampness that seemed to seep into the bones, a dampness which came from a mist which came in from the waters of the River Thames.
“Keep walking!” came the order as the boys were marched down to the waters edge to find a long rowing boat drawn up to the shore.
“All aboard and sit!”
The boys climbed aboard the boat and sat two abreast.
“Not you. You sit back here on your own.” Sam was told and sat accompanied by two of the Warders, one either side of him.
“Boat out!” came the order.
The rest of the Warders pushed the boat out into the water then clambered aboard and taking up their positions with oars dipping into the water they began rowing in stroke. Sam saw the ship looming up out of the mist, ghostly in shape then making out the form as it drew nearer. A larger-hulled ship painted in lines of black and white down its hull while the single centre mast raked the sky like a tall wooden finger. The ship was a decommissioned warship from the Royal Navy, now having lost its use and put to renewed use as a prison hulk and moored out to the middle of the River Thames Estuary. As the rowing boat drew alongside the ship the oars were raised as a net rigging was dropped over the side of the ship.
“Climb up the rigging!” came the order. “And if any of you villains fall into the water we aint here to rescue you!”
Sam was held till last, staring up as the boys clambered up the rigging and scrambled up in the dark to disappear over the side as they reached the top.
“Your turn.”
Sam began to climb the rigging, feeling it sway as the wind seemed to whip about his ears. He stopped to look back down at the white faces in the rowing boat which bobbed about beneath him.
“If you has it in mind to jump then let go and let’s get it over with!” came a voice from below.
Sam continued to climb and on reaching the top hands gripped him and pulled him aboard the deck of the prison hulk, the H.M.S. Wanderer.
Sam was taken below decks and ordered to take off his clothes and left standing to shiver in the cold.

“Come with us.”
There were two boys, older than Sam, who wore prison clothes of rough black and white stripes. Both carried rope ends which swung loosely in their hands as they marched Sam to a small cabin.
“Hold onto that ships beam.” ordered one of the boys.
Sam reached up and grasped the beam above his head, stretching up on tip-toes and no sooner had he grasped it when he first heard the crack then the pain as the rope’s end bit into his flesh. Then another came, ripping its painful message and Sam cried out in pain as the flaying continued. Throughout the pain, somewhere at the back of his mind came the message not to let go of the beam.
The beating stopped suddenly.